


Closure

by CommonNonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 06:20:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9110353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: One year after learning Genji is alive, Hanzo makes his final trip to Hanamura. He asks McCree to accompany him. He tells McCree, and himself, it's because he needs help infiltrating the old Shimada manor one last time.It is not because he's in love with McCree, and definitely not because he hopes, stupidly, that McCree might find out as they explore the old home he misses so dearly.Not in the least.





	1. Chapter 1

“I have a favor to ask you,” Hanzo says. 

McCree looks up from the cup of coffee he’s nursing on the other side of the table. It’s nearly four in the afternoon, but McCree historically has always disregarded the impact of caffeine on his sleep schedule. “Sure thing,” he says, before amending, “Well, depends on the favor.”

The dining room is quiet. In the rec room down the hall, faint shouts can be heard about something or another. It’s all playful yelling, the competitive banter of teammates enjoying good games and better company.  Hanzo and McCree had been there earlier, playing cards, but McCree had left before things got too exciting, and Hanzo had followed for an excuse to talk to him privately. 

Hanzo stares into his tea. Steam wafts gently from the surface, curling around his nose with the familiar scents of ginger and honey. He taps the fingertips of one hand against the table, leaving the other wrapped around the mug. Tea has always been a comfort for him, both in the ritual of its preparation and the act of drinking it, and it helps to smooth the fraying edges of his nerves. 

“I need to leave for two days for a private matter,” he begins slowly. “Winston is aware that I am leaving, but I have told nobody else.”

“Alright . . .” McCree sips his coffee. “So you want me to cover for you? Keep it a secret?”

“In part, yes, but that is not the favor I want to ask.” Hanzo scrapes his thumbnail along the warm, smooth ceramic of the mug. “Normally this is something I would do on my own, but I have reason to believe that my enemies will be expecting me and I may need help accomplishing my goal.”

McCree crosses his arms atop the table, leaning in as he listens. “And you want my help,” he finishes.

“If you are willing. It would be safer.”

“Why me?”

“I trust you. You are . . . a friend, as well as an ally. And you have experience in undercover work through your time in Blackwatch.” Hanzo drinks his tea, affecting a casual veneer. He is not lying, precisely, but there’s certainly more to it than he wants to let on. 

McCree’s brow furrows at this. “Just where are we goin’ that needs that?” he asks.

Hanzo hesitates briefly before he answers. “Hanamura. My home.”

At this, McCree is visibly surprised. “Really,” he says. “Then why not ask Genji? Can’t imagine I’d--”

“I cannot ask Genji for help with this,” Hanzo interrupts, surprising himself and McCree both with his sharpness. He pauses, breathing deeply through his nose, and elaborates, “This is not something he could help me with for a number of reasons. I am not comfortable asking the rest of the team. If you are not willing to go, then--”

“Hold on there, I didn’t say that,” McCree says. His easy grin returns. Hanzo curses the flicker of warmth he feels in his belly. “Yeah. ‘Course I’ll help you out, darlin’. When do we leave?”

Hanzo grimaces at the pet name, but does not object as he would have in months past. He lifts his tea to his mouth to distract from the blush he feels trying to surface. “Tomorrow morning,” he says. “A drive to the airport, then a single flight into Tokyo, followed by hypertrain to Hanamura. We will arrive late and spend the following day doing recon until the evening. I have already arranged for lodgings in Hanamura under another name, as well as tickets for the both of us.” He tries not to wince again; said aloud, it sounds as though he has put far too much thought into what he’s trying to pass as a simple mission. 

“Got it all figured out, don’tcha. Well, alright. I guess that means I gotta go pack a bag. What’re we doin’ way over in Japan, anyway?” McCree picks up his coffee again, watching Hanzo over the rim of his mug as he drinks.

Hanzo glances at the door, as though he can catch any eavesdroppers hiding around the corner. McCree knows of his past with Genji--the entire team does by now--but his yearly visits to the old family shrine are a well-guarded secret. “I would rather discuss that later,” he says. “It is nothing you would object to. A certain amount of breaking and entering, mostly. Non-lethal combat as much as possible.”

McCree chuckles into his cup. “Sounds like my kinda party.”

Hanzo laughs dryly. “If only that were the case.”

 

\--

 

Hanzo takes his time the next morning. He folds and packs two sets of clothes with excessive care, making every fold neat before he tucks them away in his duffel bag: one casual set of clothing and his favorite  _ kyudo-gi _ . Beside them go his boots, a flat plastic bag of toiletries, and a dark steel box filled with the components for his arrows, should he need to make more. His bow has been packed away not in its customary hard plastic box, but in a large instrument case, leaning up against the wall and pretending to be a cello. Airport security might raise a few brows, but as long as he doesn’t try to bring it in his carry-on, nobody will attempt to stop him.

The last thing to go into the bag is a small wooden box with sticks of incense, a ceramic bowl, and a sparrow feather tucked against the side. He wraps this in a soft cloth to ensure its safe passage before zipping the duffel shut and standing. Then he moves into the bathroom for the third time, checking yet again that he has not forgotten something that he will want later.

He’s stalling, he knows. He sighs at himself for his ridiculous behavior. Procrastination will not help him. 

Tomorrow marks one year since his last visit to Hanamura. The last time he had been there, he had had his world turned upside-down by the simple revelation that Genji lived. One month later, he had followed Genji across two continents and to Gibraltar, finding him amongst a thin, ragtag team that called itself Overwatch. 

He had not meant to stay. He had only meant to find Genji and demand answers, but Genji had repeated what he had said in Hanamura:  _ Honor comes through your actions, not your empty words. If you truly mean to honor anyone, then stay and fight.  _

And he had. 

In the last eleven months Hanzo has been with Overwatch, he has carved himself a niche in the team. He had not cared for them at first, finding their ideals naïve and himself unable to mesh with their established dynamics. But, their missions--all in the name of the greater good--have given him a new purpose, something to fight for besides his own desperate chase for redemption, and with it, a team of people he can trust, even consider his companions. 

McCree in particular has proven himself to be a reliable friend. McCree had welcomed him without judgement, only saying, “We all got our pasts here” upon being told about Genji. He had persisted in casual conversation, teasing flirting, and invitations to on-base gatherings and meals, and endeared himself to Hanzo before Hanzo even realized it himself.  Although the rest of Overwatch is friendly enough, perhaps even a sort of family, McCree sits on a level above the rest as someone Hanzo can comfortably call a good friend.

And, though Hanzo is loathe to admit it, something else.

Hanzo hates the stupid affection that has taken root, like a childhood crush from his teenage years. He is no stranger to unrequited feelings, but never has he had to constantly be in the presence of the source. McCree’s genuine eagerness to talk to him and easy, careless acceptance drew him in at first, but they hid a surprisingly keen wit and profound perception regarding the people around him. McCree was open about the dark events from his own past and how hard he had worked to atone, and convinced Hanzo that perhaps he could begin to do the same. 

In retrospect, Hanzo had never had a chance.

And he hates the ulterior motives lurking below the surface for inviting McCree to Hanamura. There is truth in the matter--sources tell him security has been increased at the Shimada Manor, and Overwatch’s return has begun to draw the wrong kind of attention--but it is unlikely that it would have been more than he could handle alone. He denies it to himself, but part of the reason he asked for McCree’s help is simply because of the stupid, romantic part of him that wants to show McCree the city where he grew up. There is nothing inherently sinister in the desire, but it’s ridiculous and baseless. As though showing McCree his old family home is going to make the man up and fall in love with him, like in a childish fairy tale. 

As though McCree would love a murderer. McCree is a good man, inherently so, despite his past--and Hanzo is not. 

Hanzo catches himself in the mirror looking stupidly forlorn. He makes a disgusted noise at his reflection, snaps off the light, and hauls his duffel off of the floor. Regardless of his feelings, he still has a job to do--hopefully for the last time.

The halls are blissfully silent as he makes his way out of the dorms and toward the main road that winds through the base. Winston has discreetly granted him the use of one of the few Overwatch cars remaining on base to get himself and McCree to the airport. Hanzo spends the long walk to the garage recomposing himself, reminding himself of the true mission at hand. The fact that he has conned McCree into two days alone in Japan is, ultimately, secondary to the end goal. 

To his surprise, McCree is already present in the garage, leaning his hip against the sleek, navy sedan that is their ride. On Hanzo’s recommendation, he has opted for a plainer outfit, and stands in a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. Without the rest of the get-up-- _ serape _ , hat, and spurs--he seems somehow smaller--just a man, not a caricature. 

“Howdy,” he says as Hanzo approaches. “Was startin’ to think you forgot about me.” He stands up and starts to move around to the trunk of the car, then pauses. Hanzo sees his gaze flick down his body and up again before he says, “You, uh, look different.”

“I do own  _ some _ ‘normal’ clothing,” Hanzo says blithely, passing his bag and bow off to McCree. His traditional archery outfit has been traded for a pair of dark, fitted jeans and a navy long-sleeve shirt, completed with a modern leather jacket and a pair of soft black oxfords. The outfit serves a dual purpose: both a departure from his regular clothing, and a cover-up for the shoulder-to-wrist tattoo. Reluctantly, he has let down his hair as well, and it tickles the sides of his neck with every movement of his head. “I just rarely have occasion to wear any of it.”

“I thought you just owned like twenty black t-shirts,” McCree chuckles as he wedges Hanzo’s bow into the trunk. 

Hanzo snorts. “Hardly. Do you own anything that is not plaid?”

“‘Course I do, but I look awful good in it, so why bother?”

Hanzo glances at the sleeves of McCree’s shirt, rolled over the thickest parts of his forearms, and silently agrees. 

McCree concedes driving privileges to Hanzo--who, after the last supply run he did with McCree, never wants to be the speed demon’s passenger again--and they set off to the airport. McCree manages to wait about ten minutes into their drive before saying, “So, you gonna let me in on just what we’re doin’ in Hanamura?”

Hanzo sighs deeply, gripping the steering wheel. He watches the road ahead for a long moment, seeing but not observing the long stretch of black asphalt ahead. 

“Every year for the last ten years, I have visited my old home in Hanamura,” he says quietly. “Every year, on the anniversary of Genji’s . . . death, I return so that I may honor him and atone for what I have done.”

He can feel McCree’s gaze on the side of his head. He continues, staring resolutely ahead, “I am no longer welcome there, for obvious reasons, but I have still returned every time. It was a minor gesture, perhaps nowhere near enough, but one I followed through nonetheless.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see McCree working his jaw as he thinks. “Okay,” McCree says with the tone of someone very carefully choosing their words. “I get that. But Genji’s alive.”

“Yes,” Hanzo agrees. “I considered not going this year now that I know, but . . .” He pauses, uncertain of how to explain himself. 

“It’d feel unfinished?” McCree supplies. Hanzo nods. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“I intend for this to be the last time. I realize now that a simple ceremony alone was not enough, but I hope--” Hanzo cuts himself off, then starts again. “Perhaps, after all I have done since, it will be enough now.”

A long moment passes. McCree leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes. “Well,” he says, “I think you’ve done a pretty good job so far, partner. Take it from someone who’s already done the whole atonement schtick--you ain’t doin’ too bad.”

Warmth blooms in Hanzo’s belly. He smiles before he realizes he has done so. 

The rest of the drive passes in comfortable silence. McCree complains good-naturedly throughout the process of boarding the plane, lamenting that they could not take an Overwatch transport (“Because they would notice if Overwatch flew in, that is why, McCree”), then falls asleep within five minutes of takeoff. Hanzo spends more time than he would like to admit watching McCree doze, basking in the unfamiliar fondness he feels witnessing his calm, sleeping countenance.

He eventually catches himself staring--again--and makes a disgusted noise at his own behavior. He tucks a pair of wireless earbuds into his ears and lets the music Lúcio loaded onto his phone--an eclectic, though pleasing, mix of string instruments and electronic beats--distract him from the days ahead. 

Half an hour in, McCree slips sideways until his head lolls on Hanzo’s shoulder. The clean, subtly spiced scent of his shampoo still clings to his hair. Hanzo lets him stay.

 

\--

 

Despite the many advancements of plane technology, the flight still takes close to ten hours to complete. Although the hypertrain is quicker, the time combined with the change in time zones means it is still nearly two in the morning by the time they arrive at their hotel. The walk from the train station to the hotel is chilly, but a pleasant reprieve from the day spent in cramped quarters with dozens of other people. 

Hanzo, though he feels grimy and weary from the full day of travel, is overcome by the sense of relaxed contentment that comes from going home. The familiar streets are mostly quiet in the late hour, lending the city a peaceful air. A few individuals still roam the densely-packed commercial district surrounding the train station, unfamiliar faces highlighted by colorful neon lights that burn through the night. Although his reasons for being in Hanamura are less than pleasant, Hanzo smiles throughout buying a cheap dinner from a convenience store and checking into the hotel. McCree is mostly quiet, likewise tired from the trip, but Hanzo catches him looking around and smiling at many of the shops and attractions they pass.

McCree gives a low whistle when they finally step into their room. “Fancy,” he says, tossing his duffel onto the queen bed nearest to the door. Hanzo glances around; the room is nice enough, walls painted in a deep, cozy red with coffee-colored carpets and crisp white sheets on the beds. Decent, although not necessarily fancy.

“I have stayed in better,” he replies as he crosses the room, setting his bag on the bed and his instrument case against the wall. 

“Not all of us grew up in the lap of luxury like you did.” McCree says it without malice, smiling as he kicks his boots in the direction of the door. 

Hanzo starts to disagree--being the heir to a prominent crime family hardly was simple--but stops himself. Instead, he moves to the window. He throws open the heavy curtains and pushes up the window pane. Cool night air rushes into the room, ruffling his hair and chilling his skin. Their room is on the top floor of the building, more than high enough to afford him a far-reaching view of the city. Despite the hour, this part of the city is still alight with activity. Multicolored lights dot the cityscape like scattered gems, casting radiance over late-night clubs and bars and the occasional tiny store. The rest of the city sleeps, maintaining a few rare hours of quiet before the bustle of Hanamura picks up again in the morning. He breathes deep, inhaling the distant scent of cherry blossoms carried on the breeze.

McCree comes up beside him, leaning over on the windowsill, pressing his shoulder up against Hanzo’s. Hanzo fights the temptation to lean into the touch. McCree lights a cigarillo and exhales smoke through the window. “Good to be home?” he asks.

Hanzo thinks. “Yes,” he answers eventually. “It is. I have missed it dearly.”

They stand together awhile longer, until McCree’s cigarillo is burned down to the stub. He flicks it out the window--to Hanzo’s chagrin--and straightens, stretching his arms behind his back with an indulgent groan.

“Welp,” he says, “time to clean up and turn in, I think. We in a rush tomorrow?”

“Not in particular. We will only need a couple of hours to investigate the manor.”

“Good.” McCree turns to leave, headed toward the en-suite bathroom. Hanzo glances back just in time to watch as McCree pulls his shirt over his head, buttons and all, giving Hanzo a perfect view of the muscles in his back and shoulders as they flex under his tanned skin. The sight of it makes Hanzo’s mouth run dry, mind already flooding with images of running his hands along that exposed skin. McCree tosses the shirt at his bed and disappears into the bathroom, whistling a short tune and blissfully unaware of Hanzo’s inner turmoil.

This may have been a bigger mistake than he anticipated. 

 

\--

 

Hanzo’s phone alarm is normally set to 6AM precisely, but last night, anticipating jet lag, he shut it off entirely. He allows himself to indulge this morning, waking up to the natural rhythms of his body somewhere around noon in local time--only an hour later than his usual wake-up time once the shift is taken into consideration, but an indulgence nonetheless. The sheets are much softer than those in the Overwatch dorms, the duvet heavy and cozy, and for once he thinks of simply drifting back off instead of getting up and on with the day. 

Still, his body is too used to his regular routine, and within a minute he is too antsy to stay in bed. He sits up and swings his feet onto the carpeted floor. A few feet away in the other bed, McCree slumbers on, wrapped up so thoroughly in the fluffy duvet that his hair is all that is visible, a spray of chestnut over the white pillowcase. The sight fills Hanzo with an unexpected rush of affection, and he catches himself smiling. His fingers twitch with an overwhelming urge to go run his hands through McCree’s hair, maybe to slide under the blanket beside him, brush kisses against his face until he slowly wakes--

The affection is replaced by a cold pang in Hanzo’s stomach when he catches himself standing in the middle of the room, indulging in pointless fantasies. McCree is a dear friend. Perhaps months ago, before they settled into this easy friendship, he might have had a chance. Now, however . . .

Hanzo breathes a soft sigh and goes to shower and dress. Today will be a very long day. 

When he finishes and exits the bathroom, McCree is awake, tiredly digging through his duffel bag with half-lidded eyes. He looks up as Hanzo crosses the room, sleep clothes folded under his arm to be put away. “Mornin’ there,” he says around a jaw-cracking yawn. 

“Good morning.” 

“Sleep alright?”

“Well enough.” 

“Good, good.” McCree shakes his head sharply as though to rid himself of his sleepiness. He stands with a clean shirt--plaid, again--in his hands. “So. What’s on the agenda today?”

“Recon, primarily.” Hanzo repacks his bag with quick efficiency before poking through it again, looking for other items. “The Shimada property is in the city, easily accessible from the commercial district. We will simply play the part of tourists while we investigate the security perimeter. Barring any complications, we will have some free time before we attack the compound tonight. It is fairly simple, all things considered. The most difficult part is not being recognized.”

“Wait.” McCree stops buttoning up his shirt mid-way, his eyebrows scrunching together. “Your massive crime family just lives in the middle of the city? With guards and everythin’? Ain’t that a bit suspicious?”

Hanzo shrugs. “It was a testament to our power,” he replies. He feels a touch of satisfaction as his fingers brush against a slim box in his bag. Inside is a pair of glasses with thin black frames. The lenses are flat and prescriptionless, but they only serve a purpose of disguise. “Our family was powerful and notorious. Nobody would dare to approach us, even the authorities. We did not need to hide.”

McCree whistles. “Damn,” he says. “Knew you guys were somethin’, but I didn’t realize it was like that. Musta been weird growin’ up like that.”

“It was, at times. Once people knew our names, they tended to avoid us, for good reason.” Hanzo slips the glasses on and glances in the mirror hanging over the long desk against the wall. With the glasses and his hair around his shoulders, he is unrecognizable at a glance. Someone looking for him will not likely be fooled, but he does not intend to stand around for people to stare at him. 

He catches McCree’s eye in the mirror and realizes the man has been staring at him for several seconds. He allows himself a smirk, covering the flutter he feels in his stomach. “Can I help you?” he asks mildly, which seems to startle McCree out of whatever reverie he was in. 

“Nothin’,” he says. He sits on the bed to pull on his shoes. “Startin’ to think I shoulda tried harder to hide my face, though.”

“Nobody will be looking for you,” Hanzo replies mildly. He picks up his phone from the bedside table and checks the time. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, but I’ll be honest, I’ll be about as useful to you as a horse with no legs if I don’t get a cup of coffee and somethin’ to eat first.”

“A horse with . . .” Hanzo shakes his head. “Never mind. Given the hour, I think I have a better idea.”

 

\--

 

A twenty-minute walk sees them outside the Rikimaru, directly across the street from the main entrance to the Shimada manor. Hanzo and McCree blend in easily with the crowds of people meandering the cobblestone streets. McCree walks casually at his side, hands in his pockets and a pleased smile on his face as he takes in the sights. Hanzo carries his bow in the cello case over his shoulder, pretending to be a musician; McCree’s gun is tucked into the back of his jeans under a loose shirt and jacket. Nobody spares them a second glance. 

Across the street from the Rikimaru is a tall wooden fence with stone pillars at either end, blending from there into the surrounding buildings. The gates are closed tight, and two guards in sleek black suits stand watch on either side. The main house towers over the fence further in the property, but the rest is hidden, making the property look deceptively small. Hanzo watches the guards from the corner of his eye as he leads the way to the ramen shop’s bar, picking stools outside that will allow them to casually observe the compound nearby. 

“So that’s where you grew up, huh?” McCree murmurs, his gaze on the gate. 

“It is.”

“It always locked up that tight?”

“For good reason.” Hanzo shrugs mildly. “Not that it has stopped me in the last few years.”

“Oh, I’ll bet. You’re a damn force of nature when you wanna be.” McCree drags his gaze away from the gates to peer at the digital menu on the wall across from them, but after a few seconds of squinting at it, he admits, “I have no idea what any of that says.”

Hanzo chuckles and helps McCree through the process of ordering,  _ miso _ for McCree and  _ shoyu  _ for himself, and settles back in his seat. He takes out his phone and idly taps through his apps, but his attention is on the manor. The guards’ rotation schedules change every time he comes back to Hanamura--sometimes they are every two hours, sometimes every eight. If they are too long, he will have to forego sneaking past them tonight and rely on brute force. Of course, this means nothing for the guards inside, who will have to be taken down regardless if he wants more than a few seconds alone in the family shrine. 

“Think I was here once before,” McCree says offhandedly. 

Hanzo snaps out of his thoughts and looks up in bewilderment. “You were?”

McCree casts a glance around, then nods as though confirming. “Yep. Just once, mind you. Only stayed in Hanamura for a couple days.”

“I did not know you were ever in Hanamura at all.” How long ago was this? Was this when Hanzo was younger, still a promising heir to the Shimada empire? Or was it later, when he was not in Japan at all, but a wandering mercenary hiding in disgrace? He does not know which would be worse. 

“Mm, maybe a year ago. Wasn’t for long, was just passin’ through. There was a robbery here I got caught in the middle of, sent ‘em packing.” McCree fiddles with a pair of wooden chopsticks, looking thoughtful. “Mostly forgot about it ‘til we got here.”

Hanzo’s heart sinks, although it should not. His plan of showing McCree around Hanamura will mean little if McCree has already spent time here. He runs his thumb through the condensation on his glass of water, hoping McCree will not notice his disappointment. “What were you doing in Hanamura, then?” he asks. 

McCree doesn’t answer for a long moment. “To tell you the truth,” he says, “I thought I might find Genji out here.”

Hanzo can’t hide his surprise. “ _ Genji? _ ”

McCree hums. “Yeah. I was outta Blackwatch by then, but when I was in there, we followed the Shimadas quite a bit. Never did a whole lot with ‘em, pretty far out of our range, but we kept an eye on what was happening when we could. Genji left Overwatch, and then a few years later I heard that someone was takin’ out a bunch of the Shimadas, so I thought maybe . . .” He trails off, tapping a chopstick against the steel countertop. “I’unno, I guess I was hopin’ to find a familiar face. Never found him since he was in Nepal the whole time. But that’s why I came through here.”

Hanzo watches the cook through the window to the kitchen. The elderly chef’s silver hair is tied up in a high bun, bobbing gently with her movements. It is an unremarkable sight in itself, but familiar from his childhood years. “You may have been looking for me without realizing it,” he says mildly.

“Yeah, I kinda figured.” McCree shrugs and finally sets the chopsticks aside. “But I didn’t spend much time lookin’ around while I was here. Certainly didn’t get a look in the infamous Shimada castle.”

Their meals come a minute later. The old woman smiles gently at them both as she sets down the steaming bowls of ramen. For a split second, Hanzo fears she has recognized him despite the eleven years since he has last been here, but she makes no comment and only bids them to enjoy their meals before bustling off.  

Just as he splits apart a pair of chopsticks, he feels a warm hand on his back. McCree suddenly leans in close, his face inches from Hanzo’s own, arm draped around Hanzo’s back. Hanzo feels every muscle in his upper body tense, though not entirely from surprise.

“McCree, what are you--”

“One of those guards has been starin’ at you for a couple minutes now,” McCree interrupts lowly. His breath caresses the shell of Hanzo’s ear, and he has to will himself not to shiver. “Think he’s tryin’ to decide if he knows you. Just roll with it.” He breaks into a chuckle, as though Hanzo had said something amusing, and reaches for his food with his other hand. “Just keep talkin’. May be nothin’ at all but I’d rather be safe than have ‘em try to kill you before we even get anywhere.”

Hanzo nods, not trusting himself to speak. McCree leans back, but his hand remains firmly on Hanzo’s back, burning through his shirt. Hanzo fumbles with his chopsticks for a second. 

McCree, oblivious to the distress he is putting Hanzo through, neatly picks up a slice of beef from his bowl. “So,” he says. “What  _ was _ it like growin’ up ‘round here? You’ve told me some of it, but it’s different seein’ it for myself.” He shoves the entire piece of beef in his mouth inelegantly as he waits for a reply. 

Hanzo thinks for a moment. “Lonely,” he eventually says. “Difficult. It was clear from a young age that my only purpose was to take over the clan in the future. It did not make for an easy upbringing.”

“I’ll bet.” McCree’s thumb strokes an idle pattern over a notch in Hanzo’s spine. 

Hanzo savors a mouthful of noodles instead of answering. The taste is just the same as it was when he was younger--perfectly salted broth, a low spicy heat on the back of his tongue, noodles chewy with just a hint of bite to them. He feels like he is sixteen again, taking advantage of a rare break between training sessions for a good meal and to pretend that his responsibilities don’t exist. 

“Genji and I used to sneak out here all the time,” he says, poking through some vegetables before settling on a slice of hardboiled egg.

“You, playin’ hooky? Hard to believe.”

Hanzo chuckles softly. “Yes, I know. Genji would often convince me when we were boys. The owner knew us so well that she would often give us our meals for free, then send us home with extras. We were regulars for many years.” Hanzo stirs his ramen with his chopsticks thoughtfully. “Our visits became less common as we grew older. I think Genji may have continued to sneak out without me, but the clan pushed me to focus only on taking over. And once our father passed . . .”

“It stopped happenin’,” McCree finishes for him. Hanzo nods his agreement. “Yeah, I get that. There was this one little Mexican joint back home that did the best enchiladas I’d ever tasted. Parents would take us as a treat sometimes, but once I threw in my hat with the gang, that didn’t really happen so much.” He sighs wistfully. “I still kinda miss it.”

“Enchiladas?”  
“You’ve never had--” McCree’s expression is nothing short of incredulous. “Listen. They’re like burritos but a hundred times better. You cover ‘em in sauce and cheese and bake ‘em.” He shakes his head. “Hell, I gotta make this right by you. Soon as we get back. Mamá was pretty good at ‘em too and I can get the recipe pretty close.”

McCree trails off into other anecdotes of his past, mostly lamenting the food that he no longer has so far away from home. When he prods Hanzo into speaking, he responds with a few other stories from his childhood--some pleasant, others a little less so. McCree listens with avid interest regardless, commenting between bites of food.

The intimacy of it makes something between Hanzo’s chest and stomach turn cold and ache. McCree’s arm stays casually around him even after the immediate danger must have passed, McCree himself listening to every word as they share a meal straight out of Hanzo’s childhood. McCree is clearly enjoying himself, downing his ramen in record time as he asks questions and laughs with Hanzo. It’s a perfect image of his past meeting the present, and Hanzo is torn between loving it and pure agony. 

Now would be the time to tell McCree, if he weren’t such a coward. It would be simple to lean over and kiss the grin on his face, swallow down the last soft sounds of laughter from McCree’s mouth, lick the taste of salt and spice from his lips. 

He aches to do it, but his courage fails him again--as though it has ever tried in these matters. 

Resigned, Hanzo drains the remaining broth from his bowl and gets to his feet. McCree’s hand finally falls away, leaving Hanzo feeling cold. “Come,” he says, which seems to surprise McCree. “We have lingered here long enough. There is more recon to do before tonight.”

“Thought you said we weren’t in a rush,” says McCree, though he likewise stands. 

“We are not. But there is still a job to be done. We can sightsee more afterward, if you wish.”

“You know it.”

 

\--

 

Wary of loitering too long around the manor and being suspicious, Hanzo leads the way out of the restaurant and into the commercial district proper. An hour spent away from the manor serves the dual purposes of scouting out the rest of the city--just in case--and immersing himself in the familiarity of his home.  Hanamura is filled with walkways between shops and high winding paths around the city, creating almost an entirely new level above the ground. He always preferred to make his way around on the upper level even when he was younger, where the level lent him a view of the city and its people one couldn’t find on the ground. It almost makes him feel safe: high above the prying eyes of people who might seek him out. 

McCree lapses into a thoughtful silence as they walk, and when Hanzo glances up, he can see the change in McCree’s demeanor, from easy sight-seeing tourist to cool, calculating black-ops agent. It’s a subtle change in his expression and the way he holds himself, unnoticeable to anyone else. It makes Hanzo wonder what McCree was like only a few years ago, when Overwatch was in its prime and Blackwatch was still around. Was he still so easygoing and lax, hiding his burdens behind a wall of geniality? Or was he still rough and a little wild from his days in the Deadlock Gang, still closer to youth than middle-age? A part of Hanzo laments that he will never know. 

He shows McCree around some of the familiar parts of Hanamura, old locations from his childhood. The old arcade was a favorite until his teen years, when his father cracked down on his “childish behavior.” McCree laughs at the notion that Hanzo has ever touched a video game in his life.

“I was quite good at most of them before then,” Hanzo counters mildly. “I am sure I could still beat you at any of them, if you doubt me.”

“Nah, I never really got into that kinda thing. Left that for my younger siblings. A good ol’ six-shooter’s enough for me. Besides, my family was never really rich enough to afford that kind of thing very much.”

“No?” This isn’t the first allusion McCree has ever made to his family’s finances, but it always stops Hanzo up short regardless.

“Nah, you know that. The whole ‘raising three kids on a backwater cop’s salary’ thing. We made do, but that meant goin’ without some stuff most of the time.” He shrugs. “We kept ourselves busy other ways.”

After an hour or so, Hanzo leads the way back toward the Shimada property, careful to keep their path leisurely and winding on their way. They stop on a catwalk connecting a handful of stores, quiet but for the two of them and the crowds below. They are far enough from the property to avoid arousing suspicion, but close enough to get a slight view over the high walls. Hanzo leans on the fence, squinting across the way at what he can see of his old home. 

“So,” McCree sets, settling beside him casually, “what am I lookin’ at?”

Hanzo observes for a moment before he answers. “From here we can see the side of the property,” he replies, pointing. “The bell tower and the servant’s quarters are there, but what I need . . .” He slowly pivots, following the length of the property until he can’t see past the edge of other buildings. “Is on the far other side. The old dojo and shrine are there, near the back. There is no easy way in on that side--the dojo is on the edge of the cliff. We will have to come through near where we are now. The grounds are not enormous, but large enough that we will have some distance to cover.”

McCree nods his understanding. “Looks like it’s, what, a few acres of space? Not too bad.”

“But it will be guarded. Even though our family has dwindled in the last years, those who remain have made sure to guard everything well.” A number of suit-clad figures are dotted around the perimeter and the open grounds, as still as vigilant statues. Hanzo takes a quick tally of those visible: six guards in the area he can see, and undoubtedly more deeper into the property. “And I was correct. There are more than during previous visits.”

“Finally wisin’ up, I take it.”

“Perhaps.” Hanzo smirks. “But that is why you are here. Between the two of us, we should have no trouble breaking in.”

“Your intel say anything else we should watch out for?”

“Nothing in particular. Just that security is heavier. They are all well-trained guards, but we are better.”

McCree snorts. “You say that and we’re gonna walk right into an omnic barricade or somethin’.”

“They are known to employ omnics,” Hanzo replies, “but in much the same way they would employ humans. I do not anticipate there being anything to really worry about.”

“Now there’s  _ definitely _ goin’ to be something there.”

“Are you afraid, cowboy?”

“Not at all. Just wanna know how much of a challenge I’m in for.” McCree grins cockily, and Hanzo is transfixed.

He manages to tear his gaze away before he is caught, but whether McCree noticed or not at all goes unsaid. 

Feeling awkward, Hanzo steps away from the fence. “Come, then,” he says, gesturing. “We should finish scouting the rest of the perimeter, at least as far as we can see, and formulate our plan.”

“Sure thing,” replies McCree cheerily. He straightens, sticking his thumbs in his belt, and Hanzo leads the way down from the walkway. 

The rest of their investigation reveals little of interest. Their walk winds around the outside of the Shimada mansion and the fences. There are no obvious entrances other than the front gate, which Hanzo has no plans to even approach. Everything remains sealed off and well-maintained, and any potential weak spots have a minimum of one guard, usually more. Hanzo can’t shake a niggling feeling that there’s more to this than he can see, but until he is in the compound proper, he won’t know what lies ahead. He can only hope that he will do as well as he has done in the years before, and accept the risk that remains. 

Throughout all of their planning and scouting, McCree remains confident beside him. When it gets down to the detail, he treats every part of the upcoming job as seriously as he would any Overwatch mission, and it leaves Hanzo feeling surprisingly at-ease. There’s a sharpness in McCree’s gaze, a sternness to his voice, that speak volumes about his ability. 

Hanzo sometimes forgets just how capable McCree is. Under the jingling spurs and battered hat is a competent, fearsome agent, a mercenary who has survived a number of his years on his own despite overwhelming odds. The reminder solidifies Hanzo’s own confidence. 

Finally, as the day begins to ebb into late afternoon, they wrap up their recon and break away from the manor to return to the city proper. They meander their way lazily through the city, poking their heads into shops of interest and taking in the sights. They take a break in a small park, where a few cherry blossoms still sprinkle down from the trees over the few wandering citizens.

Hanzo briefly abandons McCree to his own devices when he catches sight of a small shop.  He can hear McCree make a noise of questioning behind him, but he does not follow. 

When Hanzo returns, bearing two fish-shaped cakes in paper wrapping, he offers one to McCree without explanation. McCree glances suspiciously between Hanzo and the offering. 

“What’s this?” he asks as he carefully takes the cake. 

“ _ Taiyaki _ . Cakes filled with red bean paste.” 

“Any reason it’s shaped like a fish?”

Hanzo laughs. “I do not know,” he admits truthfully. “But there is no fish involved. It’s sweet.”

McCree still looks sort of doubtful. In a show of solidarity, Hanzo pointedly bites into his own  _ taiyaki _ . The waffle-like exterior is crisp and cracks satisfyingly under his teeth, followed by the subtle sweetness of the red bean on his tongue. He watches as McCree follows suit, and his expression lights up with surprised delight. 

“Damn, that’s real good,” McCree says around his mouthful. 

“They are.” Hanzo leans against the fence, looking out across the city. The sun is dipping close to the horizon, not quite setting, but preparing. McCree joins him after a moment, crossing his arms over the top of the rough wood. His elbow bumps against Hanzo’s.

“These were always my favorite,” Hanzo finds himself saying. He feels McCree’s gaze turn on him. 

“Yeah? You don’t strike me as someone with a sweet tooth.”

“Quite the opposite. I simply do not indulge often because I have self-control.” He smirks in McCree’s direction, earning himself an elbow nudged into his ribs. “But yes. Even as a child, I would always ask for  _ taiyaki _ , but it was the one thing the cooks would not make. Genji always preferred  _ dango _ , but sometimes he would sneak out and get both for us.” He smiles faintly at the memory of his brother, returning from his clandestine errand with arms full of illicit sweets.

McCree laughs, unabashedly, around another large mouthful of  _ taiyaki _ . “That’s real adorable, not gonna lie,” he says. “I can’t even imagine you as a kid, let alone buggin’ your mama for dessert all the time.”

“Admittedly, I was described as a stern child. But even so, I was a child like anyone else, at least for a short time.”

McCree hums. “But you grew up too fast. I know the feelin’.”

They lapse into companionable silence, looking out over the city together as they eat. McCree finishes his  _ taiyaki _ in another three bites, crumples the paper wrapping, and tosses it perfectly into a distant garbage can. Hanzo nibbles his, savoring the rare treat and pleasant company. He wishes he could pause this moment in time, preserve it to experience again and again: a casual moment shared with the object of his affection, the wind sweet with cherry blossoms as it sweeps by, the city stretching below, lit by the golden light of the sun as it approaches the horizon. Like this, he can even almost pretend that McCree loves him, too.

Almost.

Hanzo clears his throat and says, “I must thank you for coming here with me. I realize this is much more than a simple favor.”

“Nah, don’t mention it. This is important stuff for you. Wouldn’t dream of tellin’ you no.”

Hanzo stares into his half-eaten cake. “Why is that?”

“Hm?”

“Why would you go along with this so readily? I did not even tell you what we were doing until after you agreed. Most others would not have agreed to help me.”

McCree blinks at him. He looks somewhere between surprised and offended. “Well, first off,” he begins, “that ain’t true, ‘cause if you asked anyone in Overwatch to help you out, they’d jump at the chance.”

“And how--”

“ _ Second _ of all, I’m here because you’re my friend. And I trust you.” McCree is suddenly intense, leaning slightly more into Hanzo’s space. “You don’t gotta be alone anymore, Hanzo. Whether you like it or not, we’re friends, and that means I’ll help you. No questions asked.”

Hanzo stares. McCree meets his gaze evenly, awaiting a response. His eyes flicker down, and for one heady second, Hanzo wonders if McCree will kiss him.

It does not happen. The spell breaks, and Hanzo looks down and away. “Thank you,” he says stiffly. “That is . . . thank you.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see McCree smile. “No problem, partner.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that took so long! Hope it was worth waiting for.

They finally retire to the hotel in the evening, as the sun is just beginning to set. Hanzo feels confident in their mission, although a familiar tendril of anxiety winds through his gut as the hour draws closer. It is the same feeling he has experienced every year he has done this, but he finds himself immensely grateful for McCree’s soothing presence beside him today. 

McCree chooses to whittle away time watching a movie on the room’s TV. Hanzo checks his gear in preparation for the night, aggressively pretending he does not want to curl up at McCree’s side on the bed. He counts his arrows three times, strings and unstrings his bow twice, and polishes everything just to keep his hands and mind busy. 

Once night has fallen and Hanamura is beginning to calm, Hanzo stands and says, “Get ready. We will leave shortly.” McCree nods his agreement and shuts off the TV.

They both get ready in silence. Hanzo swaps out his casual wear for his favorite  _ gi _ and knots the left sleeve around his  _ obi _ . Slipping on his boots and his archery glove feels akin to donning the last pieces of his armor: once in place, his mind is clear and his emotions are boxed away, allowing him to focus only on the task ahead. He shoulders his quiver, hangs his bow on his back with the string across his chest, and blows out a short breath. 

Tonight finally marks the end of eleven years. Eleven years of self-hatred, of fear, of running from his past and avoiding his own future. Now that he’s facing it, he finds he has no idea whether to be relieved by or afraid of the change.

“You ready there, partner?” asks McCree as he holsters his gun. 

“As much as I can be.” Hanzo finds the small box in his duffel, containing the accessories for the prayer ritual. He runs his fingertips over the smooth wooden top before he tucks it away. 

McCree pats him on the shoulder once and squeezes. “Let’s get goin’,” he says, and Hanzo nods his agreement.

They strike out into the city together, moving swiftly through the darkened streets. Hanzo takes to the rooftops halfway through, leaping nimbly from building to building out of the sight of prying eyes. McCree follows below, surprisingly stealthy without the jingle of his spurs--the flash of a red  _ serape _ or a glowing light of his breastplate is often the only sight that Hanzo can catch. Were he not already aware of McCree’s presence, he might not see him at all. 

“ _ So what’s your plan here, partner? _ ” McCree murmurs over the comm line. “Didn’t look like there were too many of ‘em.”

“No. But there are still more than in previous years. We will need to be careful.” Hanzo comes to a stop on one slanted rooftop, which gives him a good view over the high fences surrounding the Shimada manor. “If you take the way around while I come in from the top, we should be able to take them out before they mount a resistance.”

_ “Sounds like a plan. _ ” There’s a brief pause, then McCree asks, “ _ So just how many of these guys remember you from the last ten times you’ve done this? _ ”

Hanzo chuckles. “At least a few, I imagine. I’ve come to recognize some of their faces. I do not know why they stay.”

“ _ I bet they got horror stories about you. Maybe surviving this every year is some sort of challenge.” _

“Perhaps. Or maybe my family is simply running out of people to hire and has convinced them to stay. You would be surprised at what they have convinced people to do.”

“ _ Well, if they managed to turn out  _ you, _ they’re definitely somethin’. _ ”

Hanzo feels himself flush faintly and opts not to respond. 

He takes off from the roof, leaping nimbly down to a long, narrow building below him. McCree continues, from somewhere nearby, “ _ I saw a fire escape I can climb to get myself over the fence, since we’re not taking the gate. I’ll go in that way and flank from the ground if you give me cover.” _

“Of course.”

When they finally reach the outside of the compound, Hanzo comes to a stop on a building just outside the fence. He has long since lost sight of McCree, but trusts that he is somewhere nearby. He shrugs off his bow and draws an arrow, scanning the visible property for his first target. “It is time,” he says. “Are you ready?”

` “ _As I’ll ever be._ ” 

“Good. Move swiftly, and be wary.”

“ _ Don’t worry your pretty little head, Hanzo. We’ll get the job done. You just focus on keepin’ yourself in one piece. _ ”

Hanzo fits the arrow against the bowstring, eying a guard standing alone on a ledge outside of the bell tower. “You as well,” he says, and lets the arrow fly. 

It strikes the guard solidly in the shoulder, but Hanzo doesn’t wait to see it go. He immediately slides down from his perch and breaks into a sprint. The guard has fallen to his knees, clutching his wounded shoulder and groaning in pain, so he does not see as Hanzo approaches him until it is too late. Hanzo barely breaks stride, slamming the guard’s head into the nearby wall and allowing him to crumple, unconscious. He plucks out the earpiece and hurls it elsewhere, then continues on quickly. 

Not far ahead, two more guards are waiting, spaced ten feet apart on the roof of the next building over. It gives them a perfect view of the front gate, but neither of them notice the real threat until it is too late.

The nearest woman catches sight of him first, and she gives a yell, but Hanzo silences her quickly as he pulls his bow tight against her throat from behind. The other guard is quick to react, leaping forward to help his comrade. Hanzo drags along the struggling woman as he ducks under the man’s first blow and around the second, then shoves his hostage into the other guard. They both yelp and tumble onto the tiles, slipping on the smooth surface. The man topples over the edge and hits the ground with a groan; the woman scrabbles for a handhold on the edges, barely catching herself before she can fall. 

“Quickly, I need--” she starts to say into her comm, but she stops as she looks up at Hanzo with wide eyes. Wordlessly, Hanzo brings his heel sharply down onto her hand. There is the crunching of bone, and she cries out as her grip slips, dropping her down the three stories to her comrade. 

“ _ I saw that _ ,” says McCree, and Hanzo chuckles darkly. 

“Are they out?”

Down somewhere below, he hears a shout that is quickly cut off by a yelp, then silence. McCree’s doing, by the sound of it. He finally catches sight of McCree as he walks out from under the eaves, adjusting his hat on his head. He looks up at Hanzo, grins, and reaches for a flashbang.

“They are now, ” says McCree.

“Good.”

“ _ Got ourselves a nice little group right up ahead,”  _ McCree continues, wiggling his flashbang in his hand.  _  “Think we oughta take those together. Didn’t get a good look, but they looked like they’re better armed than the rest of these goons. You ready?” _

“Of course,” replies Hanzo, and they set off in tandem.

They follow the cobblestone path through the winding garden and back toward the dojo. The adrenaline is pumping through Hanzo’s veins now, and his body sings with the thrill of battle. Not only this, but to witness McCree in action as well is a treat in and of itself. Months before, he had thought McCree to be incompetent and brazen, useless for the kind of work Overwatch did. He has learned several times over, however, just how wrong he was.   
And to see McCree apply that sort of focus and talent to a mission just for him--it feels almost like a gift.

As they approach their goal, Hanzo sees the cause for concern: four individuals grouped together, armed and dressed more like soldiers than lookouts. The sight sets off alarm bells in Hanzo’s head--there have never been so many before, nor any so heavily prepared for his arrival. 

He sees McCree cast a questioning look up at him, but he has no answer. 

“Alright, here we go,” says McCree, and he rounds the corner and hurls his flashbang directly into the guard’s faces. There are shouts of surprise,  Hanzo picks his first target, an omnic, and his arrow strikes true: the omnic stumbles backward, grasping at the arrow that has punctured its chassis. 

The rattling fire of assault rifles fills the air as the other three scramble to mount a defense. Their cover blown by the gunfire, McCree pulls out Peacekeeper and takes aim at the nearest to him, firing off one shot, then another. However, Hanzo does not see the damage done, his focus already on the others. 

Hanzo starts to reach for a scatter arrow, but thinks twice as he sees McCree engage with one of the two remaining soldiers. As one of them looks up at him, rifle at the ready, Hanzo grabs another arrow  and slides down the roof. The bullets barely miss him, but as he falls, he lets loose another arrow, which finds its home in his attacker’s neck. The soldier gurgles and collapses to the ground, still.

He turns just in time to see McCree crack the last soldier over the head with the butt of his gun, then hurl him into the wall of the nearby gazebo. There is a loud crack, and the soldier slumps. 

“Well then,” says McCree. “That ought to do it.”

Hanzo starts to reply, but stops up short as he sees the cloth patch on the nearest soldier’s jacket: a silver T, bowed into shape like a ram’s horns. Suddenly, the gear and the figures are familiar, and his heart seizes in his chest.

“They are with Talon,” he breathes. “They--they are working for my family.”

“Somebody had to,” rasps a voice behind him. Hanzo looks over his shoulder at the guard propped against the gazebo, somehow still conscious and clutching his broken ribs. He glares at Hanzo with bitter contempt. “You were supposed to be the next Master. You were  _ supposed _ to lead us on into greatness, but instead you become nothing more than a filthy traitor. Is it any wonder we finally had to turn to Talon to restore our name?”

Hanzo curls his lip in disgust. “But at what cost?” he asks. “You do not understand what you are toying with. Talon is not to be taken lightly.”

“As if you would know,” spits the guard. “You are a disgrace. You know nothing.”

“I don’t know what y’all are sayin’,” says McCree, “but I get the feeling it ain’t too kind.” He steps out from behind the gazebo, weapon drawn and at the ready. 

Hanzo doesn’t respond. In a fit of disgust, he turns away. He hears McCree shift, followed by a dull thud behind him.

Then, for the first time that night, everything falls silent. 

Hanzo has to take a moment to close his eyes, just to process everything he has learned. He knew what remained of the Shimada clan would not stop fighting. That was why  _ he _ still fought. He had not, however, ever thought they would stoop so low as to accept help from Talon. His family had always been as prideful as they were powerful--that they would reach out to the terrorist organization spoke volumes both about their desperation and how far they had fallen.

“Well, that explains a bit,” says McCree. “Any idea why Talon would be interested in your little crime family?”

Hanzo shakes his head slowly. “I do not know,” he replies. “I did not think the clan would accept help, particularly theirs. I do not know what the Shimadas have to offer, other than notoriety.”

“If Talon can get even a couple Shimada ties, I bet they’d have a lot of connections.” McCree sighs. “Great. We’re gonna have to report all this shit to Winston and the others, now.”

“I am aware.”

A beat passes, then McCree says, “Don’t think about that right now. We came here for a reason and this wasn’t it.”

Hanzo breathes slowly, deeply. “You are correct,” he says. “We will discuss this when we return to Gibraltar. No sooner.” With that, he steps away, determined to finish what he began.

“I’ll take a quick look around, make sure there ain’t anyone else hidin’.” 

Hanzo nods and pads quietly to the door of the old family shrine. The lights have been left on in the haste of the guards to find the intruders. Every detail is painfully familiar, just as they have been for the last ten years. 

The jingle of McCree’s spurs announces his approach. “Looks like that was the last of ‘em,” he says softly from somewhere behind Hanzo’s shoulder. “They should all be out for a good couple hours. Dunno how long this will take ya, but I can keep watch while you do your thing.”

“Thank you. I will not be here long.” Hanzo stares across the wooden pathway that leads to the display. From here, he can still see the crimson of blood on the hanging scroll, a dramatic splash of color against white cotton. He has never understood why the family left that scroll as it was. A reminder, perhaps, of the consequences of disobedience. 

McCree must sense his hesitance, because a moment later, McCree’s hand comes down on his shoulder. “Sure thing,” He murmurs, squeezing once. “Take your time. We’ll figure all this stuff about Talon out when you’re finished.”

Finally, Hanzo gathers himself and makes the long walk across the wooden walkway, stopping in front of the display. His old blades are still displayed there, not a speck of dust upon the scabbards, immaculately kept by what little family remains here. He kneels and takes the black steel box out of the folds of his  _ gi _ . His hands move mechanically, undergoing the familiar ritual of placing the ceramic bowl and the incense burner, laying the delicate sparrow feather at the end, lighting the incense and watching the embers flare to life. Smoke wafts from the glowing tips, teasing Hanzo’s nose with the heady scent of cloves and floral blooms. 

He bows his head and presses his hands together in supplication. Instead of praying, however, he finds himself watching the incense burn, his thoughts wandering like the tendrils of smoke. 

Before, he would pray for forgiveness and redemption, venerate the young man his brother had been, mourn the man he could have become. He would offer the gifts of incense and sparrow feathers to whatever spirits may or may not be listening, confident that though nothing would change, he had honored his brother in some way. Now, knowing the man Genji has become, knowing that the young man was never truly gone, knowing that he has begun to forge his own path to redemption, Hanzo finds he has no words at all.

He does not even realize that McCree has come into the room until he is standing at his side.

“I thought you were going to keep watch,” Hanzo says.

“Seemed like you needed me in here more.” Hanzo watches from the corner of his eye as McCree kneels, mimicking Hanzo’s position. His leg presses against Hanzo’s, a solid line of warmth that Hanzo finds immeasurably comforting. He swallows hard against a knot that inexplicably forms in his throat and tries to close his eyes.

Still, even with McCree’s presence grounding him to reality, he finds he cannot focus enough to pray. McCree sits in silence, looking uncertain but undeniably present, and Hanzo finds he _wants_ to speak, that he _wants_ McCree to understand what makes him hesitate. He resists the urge, but after a moment, the words tumble, unbidden, from his lips: “The last time I was here was when I learned Genji lived.”

McCree turns his head toward him, quiet but listening. Hanzo continues, “I had thought him an assassin, at first. He would not have been the first to come for me. But as we fought, he showed that he could control the dragons, and when he revealed his face . . .”

He trails off as he remembers that moment: the nauseating mixture of suspicion and hope that had arisen when he saw the green dragon, confirmed when the so-called assassin removed his faceplate and revealed the scarred visage of his own brother. He swallows hard and focuses on the press of McCree’s thigh against his until he can speak again. “He told me he knew that I had come here every year. That my offerings were pitiful and did not truly honor his memory. If I truly wanted to honor anyone, I must find a better way, to better myself and the world.”

He breathes deeply, exhaling as a sigh. “He told me he forgave me. That he believed there was still good within me.”

“Wasn’t wrong,” McCree murmurs. Hanzo starts to shake his head, and McCree interjects, “ _ No _ , he wasn’t.”

Hanzo presses his lips into a thin line, but does not argue. 

They both remain silent for a long minute. Hanzo watches segments of ash fall off the ends of the incense.

“Well,” McCree says, “you’re doin’ good so far. I ain’t gonna tell you to get over it, ‘cause that would just make me the biggest hypocrite the world’s ever seen, but I think you’re bein’ too hard on yourself.” Hanzo scoffs, and McCree continues emphatically, “You made your mistakes, but no man is above redemption. Even you.”

Hanzo swallows again around the lump of emotion that sits in his throat, but his words remain caught behind it and leave him speechless. McCree gives a faint smile, but says nothing else. Instead, he raises a hand to take off his hat, which he rests in his lap before turning back to look at the offerings. He dips his head, eyes closed, and Hanzo realizes that he is mimicking him--whether offering a real prayer or merely being respectful, Hanzo cannot say, but the sight of it makes his chest hurt nonetheless.

With a deep breath, Hanzo closes his eyes and bows his head. He finds that he still cannot find something to pray for, until he becomes aware again of McCree at his side: his soft breathing, his thigh pressed firmly against Hanzo’s, the very fact that he agreed to be here at all. 

So Hanzo instead thinks of the future that might unravel, the time he has spent with Overwatch and McCree, the years he has put into bettering himself in the hopes that he will regain even a fraction of his honor, and the pitiful but warm love he feels for the man beside him. He prays for all of it until the incense finally burns down to the stand, the ashes crumpling in little piles as the last tendrils of smoke disappear. When he is done, he quietly packs everything back in the wooden box while McCree looks on, and he gets to his feet. 

“We are finished here,” he says. McCree nods and stands, placing his hat back atop his head. 

They sneak back out of the compound--a much simpler task than getting in--and make their way back to the hotel. They walk in silence for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, before McCree softly asks, “You alright?”

Hanzo does not answer for a long moment. “I think I am alright,” he says at length. “It is . . . different than past years. But I will be fine.” 

“You sure? That was pretty intense stuff.”

Hanzo thinks for a moment. “I may need a drink,” he eventually admits.

McCree hums. “I think we can arrange that. You deserve it.”

 

\--

 

Hanzo gives McCree his credit chip and waits outside while McCree, in an outfit slightly less obvious, purchases two bottles of cheap sake from a late-night shop. They make their way back toward the hotel in silence. The clink of the glass bottles in their plastic bag is the only sound between them. Hanzo feels lighter than he has in many years, although his mind is a jumble of emotions and thoughts.  

They return to the hotel and make their way to their room in silence, each lost in their own contemplations. The cool evening air and calm surroundings serve to calm Hanzo’s nerves so that by the time they reach the hotel, he can think clearly again. For the first time in eleven years, he feels something that could almost be described as peace. Though he knows it will be some time before he is truly at ease with tonight’s events, and he will eventually have to report to Winston about Talon’s presence, the fact that he has finally finished with this chapter of his life is enough for now. 

“Well then,” McCree sighs as they finally step into the room. He kicks off his boots in the direction of his bed and sets down the  _ sake _ . “That was something of a night.”

“It was,” Hanzo agrees. Weariness settles over him like a blanket, the kind of tiredness that comes from exertion and a job well done. He shrugs off his gear and stacks it neatly beside his bed before reaching for the  _ sake _ bottles. McCree disappears into the bathroom and returns with two plastic water cups. 

“Ain’t exactly fine dinin’, but since we don’t have any crystal glasses lying around . . .” he says, trailing off as he offers the cups.

Hanzo laughs softly. “They will do. Thank you.” He pours them each a healthy measure of sake, knocks back his first drink, and pours himself a second. Tonight truly calls for a proper amount of alcohol.

They settle together on McCree’s bed to drink. McCree turns on the first show he finds on the TV and tosses the remote aside, and together they lapse into an easy silence, each preoccupied by their drinks and thoughts.

After half an hour of quiet drinking and television-watching, McCree says, “Why’d you bring me here?”

The question startles Hanzo out of his thoughts. He looks up from his drink to find McCree watching him with an unusually serious expression.

“What?”

“Why did you bring me here,” McCree repeats. He gestures lazily with one hand. “Not that I’m complainin’ about a little vacation, mind you. But this seems really . . .” He chews the inside of his cheek, searching for the word. “Personal. Not the kind of thing I’d expect you to bring people on.”

Hanzo bristles. “I told you before we left,” he says with forced evenness. “I believed the security would be tighter than during my last visit and I trusted no one else.”

“Bullshit,” McCree says. 

Hanzo turns an incredulous glare on McCree. McCree meets his gaze evenly, not backing down. “You’ve been doin’ this every year for ten years,” he says. “You didn’t need me for this. There’s more to it.”

“I did it alone because I  _ was _ alone,” Hanzo counters heatedly. “You are the one who insists I rely more on the Overwatch team, and so I chose to bring someone with me for safety.”

“Coulda taken someone else.”

“I trust you. That is no secret. Besides, your experience in Blackwatch meant you would do well in espionage, which is what this mission called for.”

McCree groans, sounding agitated. “Hanzo, come on,” he says. “Would you just answer me honestly for once? This whole time, something’s been buggin’ me. You didn’t need me, even with Talon there. I know you didn’t. You definitely didn’t need to take me on a tour of Hanamura.”

“Would you have rather spent the day in the hotel?”

“Would you stop? This whole trip, this whole thing has felt like--like you’re--shit, if I didn’t know better, I’d call it a damn  _ date _ .”

Hanzo doesn’t answer. The silence between them is deafening. 

“Oh,” McCree breathes. “That’s what it is, isn’t it?”

Hanzo turns his head away, gritting his teeth. He knew this would happen. He _knew_ , but he still brought McCree anyway, still brought him to his family home like a romantic, hopeless, sentimental fool. If he is lucky, McCree will let the matter drop, and they can return to Gibraltar tomorrow morning and pretend that he hasn’t accidentally-on-purpose bared his useless heart. 

He downs the rest of his sake and stands abruptly, striding toward the door before he can embarrass himself further. He hears McCree scramble to his feet behind him, spurs jangling as he slides off the bed.

“Hold on there, Hanzo,” McCree says, clapping a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder. Hanzo shrugs out of the hold and tries to continue, but McCree just grabs him again with more force. “Dammit, I said  _ hold on, _ would you just hear me out?”’

Hanzo grabs McCree’s wrist and turns quickly, twisting his arm around and down with enough pressure to force McCree to follow the movement, but not enough to cause pain. McCree yelps in surprise, but he does not fight back. 

“Easy,  _ easy _ ,” he says. He’s partly hunched at the angle his shoulder has pulled him into to avoid pain. “Listen, I ain’t mad. In fact, I’m pretty darn pleased to hear it.”

Hanzo narrows his eyes. McCree is almost certainly humoring him to avoid a broken arm. Still, he releases McCree’s wrist. McCree rubs his shoulder as he straightens, clearing his throat.

“So, uh. Yeah, I mean, I didn’t realize you felt that way at all,” McCree says, grinning an awkward, crooked grin. “Ain’t usually that dense, but--hell.” He clears his throat and sweeps off his hat, holding it in front of his chest. Hanzo tries to shove down the tenuous hope swelling under his ribs. 

McCree continues, his smile becoming something that could almost be described as bashful. “But, uh, to be honest with you, I’ve been pretty sweet on you for awhile now, too,” he says. Hanzo’s traitorous heart starts beating a tattoo against his sternum. “Y’know, probably a lot more than I should be, but--well, here we are. I didn’t realize you . . . “ He laughs self-consciously. “Hell’s bells, I never know what you’re thinkin’. But, maybe you could stick around? And we could, y’know, see where it goes from here?”

Hanzo feels numb. He has no idea how to respond. McCree laughs a little at some joke of his own and takes a careful step forward, putting himself in Hanzo’s space. He reaches out and then stops, his hand hovering over the curve of Hanzo’s jaw.

“To be honest,” he says softly, “I’d really like to kiss you first, if that’s alright with you.”

Hanzo doesn’t trust himself to speak quite yet. Part of him is convinced he’s dreaming, that he’s actually fallen asleep in a  _ sake _ -induced haze. He nods once, a sharp jerk of his head, and McCree smiles wider.

“Good,” he says, stroking his thumb across Hanzo’s cheekbone, toward his ear, down the line of scruff on his jaw. Hanzo’s eyes flutter closed without his input as he lets himself indulge in the touch. Fingertips don’t compare, however, to the moment when McCree dips his head down and kisses him. 

McCree’s lips are warm and dry, tasting faintly of _ sake _ and cigarillo smoke. He kisses once, adjusts, and presses back in, slotting their lips together properly. There is no demand, no subtle dig for more--only a gentle, unhurried touch. He pulls away before Hanzo can pull himself together well enough to respond, but his hand lingers with featherlight touches. 

“Good?” he says again, a question this time. Hanzo answers him by grabbing the collar of McCree’s shirt and pulling him down into another kiss. McCree huffs a laugh against his mouth.

They stand there for a long moment, indulging in sweet, chaste kisses that feel almost ridiculous in their simplicity. Hanzo feels drunk on a mix of relief and ecstasy: lightheaded and warm, unable to stop. Every time it seems McCree might try to pull away, Hanzo chases after him, keeping his hold on McCree’s collar to keep them together. 

“So is this the real reason you brought me here?” McCree asks when they finally break apart, murmuring in the space between their mouths. “‘Cause you hardly had to go through all this to seduce me.”

Hanzo feels himself flush. “It was a part of it,” he admits grudgingly. “I  _ was _ concerned about how difficult this mission would be, but I probably could have handled it.”

“Shoulda just told me. Not that I’m complainin’, but I feel like we wasted a lot of time.”

“I did not know how. I did not even intend to tell you while we were here. I just . . .” Embarrassed, Hanzo trails off, looking down. McCree brushes a kiss against his forehead, and Hanzo can feel him smiling. 

“Not like I said anything, either,” he says. “I’m just--glad we’re here.” He pauses, then pulls back to look at down at Hanzo, abruptly serious. “As long as this is what I think it is.”

Hanzo’s heart gives a jolt. “Which is?”

McCree licks his lips, nervous. “Everything,” he says. “Or, at least, I hope so.”

Before Hanzo can respond, McCree continues, “You have no idea how much these last couple days have meant to me. I kept telling’ myself it really was just a mission, that I was here to help you with somethin’ important, but--hell. Seein’ where you grew up, seein’ you so damn happy to be home, and you sharing all of that with me, it’s been--”

He cuts off suddenly, flexing his hand on Hanzo’s hip. “It’s been really good,” he eventually says. 

Hanzo takes a deep breath. He gently pushes on McCree’s chest, nudging him backwards towards one of the beds. The back of McCree’s knees hit the edge of the bed and he sits, getting his hands on Hanzo’s hips. He looks up with an expression that is equal parts hopeful and adoring. Hanzo is struck, not for the first time, by McCree’s utter sincerity. He has always been honest in such a casual way: honest in his emotions, his thoughts, his opinions. He flirts because he is genuinely appreciative of his companions’ looks and wits, he is fiercely loyal because he knows the feeling of betrayal ten times over, and he is sincerely affectionate because he knows the pain of being alone. 

There is no reason to believe McCree is lying now. 

Hanzo kneels on the bed slowly, knees on either side of McCree’s thighs. He curls his hand under McCree’s chin and presses his thumb to McCree’s lips, quirking a smile when he feels McCree gently kiss the pad.

“Everything,” he agrees. “If you will have me.”

McCree takes his hand and presses another kiss to the middle of his palm. “There’s no ‘if’ about it sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You’re . . . you’re somethin’ else, I gotta tell ya. I couldn’t tell you no if my life depended on it. ” 

Hanzo’s chest twists tight. He bends down and kisses McCree, hard, a rush of emotion overtaking him. A soft groan comes from low in McCree’s throat as he tips his head back, parting his lips eagerly under Hanzo’s, tongue curling around his as his fingertips dig into Hanzo’s waist. Hanzo doesn’t have the words to compare to McCree’s, so all he can do is pour his heart into his actions, hoping that McCree can glean a fraction of his emotions from his touch. 

He does not know how long they stay wrapped up together, unable to stop, time completely forgotten in favor of each other. At some point they wind up stretch out on the bed, Hanzo letting himself be pinned under the comforting weight of McCree’s body. There is no urgency, just a low heat between them simmering with the heady promise of more: something to share sometime soon, but not tonight. 

When they finally slow and break apart, it is with great reluctance, and they only remain apart long enough to dress down before they curl up together under the sheets. McCree shuffles into Hanzo’s space, barely a hand’s width away, knocking their knees together. Hanzo can’t bring himself to complain. 

After the rush of the day and the adrenaline of their mission, the quiet room is a welcome reprieve. Outside is the occasional rumble of a distant car far below, but no other noise reaches them. 

“So how are you feelin’?” McCree murmurs in the darkness between them. “About everything. Been a bit of a day.”

Hanzo thinks of how to answer. Overwhelmingly relieved. Happier than he has ever been. Lighter than he has felt since he was a child.

“Better,” he says, and he can just see McCree’s grin in the moonlight filtering through the blinds. 

 

\--

 

Hanzo wakes the next morning to the unfamiliar feeling of someone’s arms wrapped around his middle. McCree is plastered against his back, snoring into his neck. Their combined body heat under the duvet is sweltering, and Hanzo’s back aches from not moving in multiple hours, but he can’t bring himself to move an inch. As the previous night’s events come back, he finds himself grinning, and buries his face into the pillow. 

He would stay there forever, were it not for the buzzing of his phone on the table. He cranes his neck to peer at the name, stifling a groan when he sees Genji’s. Reluctantly, he pushes himself up on one arm and reaches for the accursed phone. 

He thumbs the button to open the call, but before he can even say hello, Genji interrupts him. “You went back to Hanamura, didn’t you.”

Hanzo sits up, abandoning the warm cocoon of the bed and McCree’s embrace. Behind him, McCree makes a tiny noise of protest. “Good morning to you as well,” he says dryly.

“Yes, good morning, whatever. You went home, didn’t you?”

There is no point in lying, Hanzo decides. The timing of his “vacation” is significant to them both, after all. “Yes, I did. I will be back tonight.”

“Hanzo . . .”

“I intend for this to be my last visit. I just--felt I needed to return one more time.”

Genji doesn’t respond for a long moment. Then, with a smile Hanzo can hear in his voice, he asks, “And you brought McCree with you?”

Hanzo is glad for the several thousand miles between himself and his brother as his face grows hot. “You know what the manor is like!” he protests. “Security had been increased and I needed help to ensure everything went properly.”

“Oh, I’m sure. And I’m sure it had nothing to do with how you want him to--”

“ _ Genji _ ,” Hanzo hisses. He hears McCree shift behind him and make a sleepy, questioning noise. Genji laughs, unthreatened as always. 

“Come on, brother, it’s obvious to anyone with eyes,” he chuckles. “You can hardly blame me for asking. I  _ will _ want updates when you get back.”

Hanzo grits his teeth, refusing to answer. There is another burst of laughter, but then Genji quiets again. 

“So how are you?” he asks after a moment. “I did not think you would go back to Hanamura this year. Or perhaps at all.”

“I had considered not coming, but I had to. Just once more. I do not intend to come back home again--at least, not for this.” 

“You do recall what I said to you a year ago.”

“I do. I just felt I needed to finish this. Overwatch has given me something to do, a new purpose, but I needed to finish this. And I have.”

Hanzo fidgets with his free hand in his lap. Behind him, McCree rolls over in the bed. “What’s up, darlin’?” he slurs sleepily, wrapping his arm clumsily around Hanzo’s middle. Hanzo holds out the phone from his ear to show him, and McCree hums and presses his face against Hanzo’s lower back.

“I am glad to see you finally move on,” says Genji, bringing Hanzo’s attention abruptly back to the conversation. “I was worried you may never, even after you joined Overwatch.”

“It is not such an easy thing to just get over,” Hanzo says dryly.

“No. But nonetheless, I am glad I was right.”

“How?”

“There was still good within you.”

Hanzo can’t find the words to respond. Genji laughs again, a little wistfully. “We will talk more when you return,” he offers. “For now, I just wanted to make sure everything was well. Say hi to McCree for me.”

“No.”

“Rude. I hope you two  _ did _ get together. Getting laid regularly might actually put you in a good mood for more than two minutes.”

“Genji--” Before Hanzo can scold him properly, Genji hangs up. 

“Whaffadaboud?” says McCree.

“What.”

McCree lifts his head. “I said, what’s that about?”

Hanzo rolls his eyes. “Just Genji. He figured out where we went. I thought he might.” With a resigned sigh, Hanzo drops the phone back onto the bedside table.

“Mm.” McCree presses a kiss to Hanzo’s spine. “Come back to bed. S’too early.” 

“We will need to get up eventually,” Hanzo points out, already turning to face McCree.

McCree shrugs, looping his arm around Hanzo’s neck to pull him down. “Took me long enough to get you in bed with me. I’m gonna enjoy it,” he says. 

Struck speechless for the second time that morning, Hanzo opts to answer in the form of a kiss--morning breath be damned. It is hard enough to believe that he woke this morning at McCree’s side, let alone that the other man is just as pleased by it as he is. A swell of happiness overtakes him, and he grips McCree’s face between both hands to draw him into a deeper kiss. McCree makes a surprised noise underneath him, but eagerly reciprocates, arms winding around Hanzo’s neck and shoulders.

“Can I ask you somethin’?” McCree murmurs when they finally part. He smooths the hair from Hanzo’s face to look at him.

“What?”

“How long’s this been goin’ on?”

“About ten hours, if I had to guess.”

McCree snorts and swats Hanzo on the shoulder. “You know damn well what I mean,” he says. “How long have you been keeping this from me?”

Sobering, Hanzo hesitates. “For some time,” he says carefully.

“That ain’t real specific, darlin’.”

Hanzo deliberates for a moment on kissing McCree again just to stop the line of questioning, but decides against it. There will be no distracting McCree for long once he’s decided on something. “Months,” he admits. “I was interested from shortly after I joined Overwatch, but I didn’t realize the depth of my feelings until later.”

“Is that so.” McCree shifts, propping himself up on his elbows. “I’d ask why you kept it secret so long, but I guess I can’t talk, since I did the same damn thing.”

Hanzo is astounded. “You did?”

“Mmhm. It was one thing to flirt with you for awhile, and lord knows I tried, but the rest of it . . .” McCree trails off. “You drive me crazy, you know that? Smart as a whip, pretty as a picture, and I can never tell what you’re really thinkin’. Makes a man nervous.”

“Funny you would say that.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I often thought the same of you. Though perhaps not in so many words.”

McCree stares down at him with a look of surprised wonder. He licks his lips, contemplates for a moment, then asks, “When do we need to get outta here?”

Hanzo blinks. “Our train leaves in about two hours, I believe. Why?”

“Oh, good, that’s plenty of time,” McCree says, and leans up to catch Hanzo’s mouth in a heated kiss. With a grin that threatens to break their kiss, Hanzo lets himself be pushed to the side and back against the pillows. He gives into McCree’s loving, roaming touch, unable to do much else but wrap his arms around McCree’s shoulders and keep him close.

They have time. 

 

\--

They finally manage to separate themselves after nearly an hour, with great reluctance. They take turns showering to avoid being distracted again, pack up, and make their way off to the train section with their bags over their shoulders.

McCree insists on making a stop before the train station so that he can buy more  _ taiyaki _ , and comes back with half a dozen. He laughs when Hanzo insists that it’s far too much food and not appropriate for breakfast. 

“You said you missed having ‘em and they’re too good to pass up on before we leave,” McCree says, pushing three of the treats into Hanzo’s hands. “Don’t act like you ain’t gonna eat them all.”

Hanzo finds he can’t argue, so he bites into a cake instead. He finishes one and a half on the walk and puts the rest away for later; McCree finishes all three of his and is visibly pleased with his decision.

They board the train and, instead of sitting across from each other, sit side-by-side. Conversation quickly fades as they are both lulled into a doze by the steady movements of the train on its tracks, the low rumble of voices and machinery providing a backdrop of white noise. Hanzo puts in one earbud but leaves the other so he can hear McCree, though McCree has little to say other than a few random comments. 

Hanzo thinks of the potential future sprawling out before him, the chances he has now thanks to the man at his side. He will no longer come back to Hanamura for the anniversary of Genji’s death, but perhaps, if he plays his card right, he will have a new anniversary--one to celebrate, rather than mourn. The thought fills him with warmth, and he smiles without thinking.

“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?” McCree asks. He rests his hand over Hanzo’s on the armrest between them, giving a little squeeze.

Hanzo  catches his gaze in the reflection in the window. He smiles, threading his fingers through McCree’s, which are still faintly greasy from the taiyaki but warm and strong.

“Nothing,” he answers.

“Really? That don’t look like nothin’.”

“Well,” Hanzo amends, “perhaps not  _ nothing _ .” At McCree’s questioning look, he lifts McCree’s hand to brush a kiss over his knuckles. “But something very good, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of this. :D Thanks for reading, come find me at kerfufflewatch.tumblr.com for art, fic updates/excerpts, and general Overwatch shenanigans, if you're into any of that.


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